


Dark End of the Street

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Angst, Anonymous Sex, Frottage, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: 1967They’ve never stopped at this pharmacy.  Of all the times they’ve crisscrossed through this city, of all the times Dean’s pulled through with blood in his mouth and Sam’s hand bandaged up on the dash, they’ve never stopped here.  How can that be?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 24
Kudos: 211
Collections: Different Years, SPN Best Works, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Dark End of the Street

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Dark End of the Street" by James Carr.

###  Summary:

1967

They’ve never stopped at this pharmacy. Of all the times they’ve crisscrossed through this city, of all the times Dean’s pulled through with blood in his mouth and Sam’s hand bandaged up on the dash, they’ve never stopped here. How can that be?

###  Notes:

Title from "Dark End of the Street" by James Carr.

###  Work Text:

1967

They’ve never stopped at this pharmacy. Of all the times they’ve crisscrossed through this city, of all the times Dean’s pulled through with blood in his mouth and Sam’s hand bandaged up on the dash, they’ve never stopped here. How can that be? 

*

Dean’s body is a latticework of scar tissue and home-sewn sutures. He’s lucky his face is still handsome enough to get him in the door. It had been a near thing with that shtriga in Montgomery back in ‘63. 

Evil has a million faces. Dean’s met most of them. Werewolves and ghosts and a dozen bogeymen that lurk under beds and hide in closets. With salt and silver and the blood of a fucking goat that last time in Percy, Dean’s sent them all back to Hell. Dean’s not looking for monsters tonight. He gut-shot a poltergeist full of rock salt and watched him burn while Sam torched the ratty old top hat keeping the damned thing tethered to the mortal plane and tormenting a nice family outside of Newton. Dean’s had enough monsters for one day.

Dean’s lighter flares as he lights a smoke. He’s learned the signs throughout the years. A certain color in a window, an image on a sign, a certain type of bouncer. Dean knows how to find the right places.

Boston is a veritable cornucopia compared to some of the small-town honky joints he’s hustled his way through. He doesn’t need to tell Sam where he’s going. He and Sam have a litany of sins for which they must beg forgiveness, but this one is Dean’s to bear alone. 

He leaves the car keys, takes some cash, trusts Sam to know he’ll be back in the morning. His itch scratched, his thirst slaked for a while. Sam stopped asking him where he goes years ago.

Dean’s feet clatter against cobblestones. Wagon wheels used to churn over these, and even then, there were probably men just like him, walking down the dark street, hoping to find a bit of solace. There’s a blue light outside, flickering, not much of a sign. It’s worth looking into. The guy at the door is a good sign, too. He’s tall, robust, gives Dean a good once over.

“You here to meet some fellas?”

Dean’s met men all across the country, old men, young men, scared men, bold men. None of them evil, all of them frightened.

Dean nods once, tight. Yeah.  _ This’ll be the place. _

It’s down a dimly-lit set of stairs. The scent of cigarettes, cologne, and spilled beer fills his nose. Definitely not a fancy joint, then. It’s a mixed crowd, nice to see in a stuffy old city full of puritans like this. Dean cozies up to the bar, a place that’s always home no matter what kind of place he’s in. He gets himself the usual. Cheap whiskey, three fingers. 

There’s a tension in these places that washes over him. It’s like goosebumps, like knowing something in the dark is watching you. Here, the things that rove their eyes over him want to devour him in a different way—a way Dean needs.

He doesn’t recognize the song that’s playing. It’s some of that new shit coming out of Detroit and down south. They’re calling it “soul.” Dean likes it.

He ignores one skinny-looking fellow. Dean likes men, not boys. It’s been nice growing older, getting some seasoning on him so he can dodge the old men who used to seek him out.

Dean sees him across the bar. There’s an energy to the first-timers. Hunched shoulders, eyes that skate all around the room like they’re going to be caught at any second. A finger with a wedding band.  _ Yeah, first-timer _ .

What is it about a set of sad eyes that always gets Dean?

He grabs his drink, makes like he’s heading to the can or over to the jukebox. The guy checks him out, like he can’t help himself. Dean smiles.

He takes the seat next to him, bold as he dares, but that’s all he does. He sits there, plants his elbows on the bar, wraps his fingers around his drink and takes a sip. Another song cues up, something slow, crooning. It tugs at the heart. Dean looks over, slowly. This guy’s beautiful.

Men can be pretty, too. Dean’s been called pretty plenty of times, and not always in a way he’s terribly fond of, but there’s a beauty that men have. A soft pair of lips, a strong jaw, a dusting of stubble Dean can feel, aching between his legs.

Sad eyes look up, and maybe they’re blue, or green, something bright that looks out of place hidden in shadows underground. Dean has body language. He cocks an eyebrow, leans in a little bit. He lets the toe of his boot slide just so. A little nudge, well within the realm of plausible deniability. The guy’s eyes go wide. Dean lets his hand slide down, dangling by his barseat. He looks down, then looks back up at the guy, giving him as clear an invitation as Dean’s willing to. Never smart to be the one making all the moves. 

Dean’s run down deer that look less slack-jawed than this guy. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes like he’s jumping into a lake or something that little boys are taught to fear. He lets his hand slide down, lets his knuckles graze against Dean’s. God, just that’s enough. Just the slide of his skin against someone else’s. A touch of intent, a touch of promise. 

Dean looks at him, tilts his head toward the dance floor. It’s full of couples already. It’s an old-fashioned kind of place, with the butch guys leading, the fairies following. Dean decides to be bold.  _ A sin halfway is hardly worth committing. _

He wraps his hand around the man’s, slides them to their feet, tugs him forward. The guy follows in his wake. Dean pulls them through the crowd, sliding through all the other men there, all of them so desperate just for this. 

He picks a shadowy corner of the dance floor, pulls the guy close to him. He guides Sad Eyes’s arms around his neck, lets his hands circle around his waist, and then they start to sway. Like dark chocolate, or vermouth, something that’s delicious for all that it’s bittersweet. 

This haunts Dean more than all the monsters and ghosts he’s looked dead in the eye, how achingly desperate he is to just hold someone, to just be held. To exist in time and space, with someone who sees him. He’s gotten fucked in alleys, he’s sucked guys off at truck stops, he’s done it all. He closes his eyes and tightens his hold on Sad Eyes’s waist, presses his cheek to the man’s temple. This is the thing he sees before he falls asleep at night.

Slowly, the song changes, but it’s that same, moody, slow beat, like honey. Something that slows the world down around them. The guy smells like ivory soap, like Mule Team borax, clean things. Pure things. Things with weddings and houses, children, swing sets in the backyard. Things Dean fights to keep safe every day.

In the sea of people, the man’s head lands on Dean’s shoulder, nestles there, and for a moment they’re the only two people on earth. The light gleams golden above them, tracing blue onto the dirty floor beneath. Dean closes his eyes and lets the warmth bleed between them. 

There’s so much life inside them, so much that never gets let out. They used to bleed people to make them better, and Dean can understand the logic behind that. Sometimes it’s like it’s coursing through him so fast it’s going to burst out, like the pressure will go right to his head. He breathes out, letting his breath tickle against the man’s neck.  _ God, he smells good _ . Dean’s lip grazes against the shell of his ear.

Sometimes they don’t want to kiss. Dean never pushes. He knows not to ask for too much. 

He doesn’t know how many songs go by. It could be four, it could be a hundred, it could be one. 

Something in Dean upends when Sad Eyes kisses him. He’s not expecting it, never greedy enough to think that things like that are going to happen, never greedy enough to hope. His lips are rough, like he bites them out of worry. Dean wonders what sort of weight this man bears.

Dean hasn’t been kissed in months.

He leans down, closing the bare two inches between them. He lets his hands sneak up the guy’s back. He’s got lithe muscle under there. Someone who keeps himself fit or has to be for a living, Dean can’t tell. Sad Eyes’s hands slide up into Dean’s hair. There’s something inexpert about it, adolescent, like the sort of fumbling Dean had done behind schoolyards and in the root cellars of other boys’ houses. It makes him giddy, makes him laugh a little. Whets his appetite.

He swipes his tongue into the other man’s mouth, tastes the sweet-sour of beer and saliva, the warmth that only comes from another man’s mouth. The blood pounds in his ears, and he couldn’t list a single word of this song if his life depended on it.

Dean knows his opportunity when he sees it. He’s not letting this guy go. Dean can be the teacher. He’s always been a good big brother. Half by the belt loops and half by the sheer force of their mouths together, Dean guides him back past the can, back to the shadowed-off corners these places always have. Some things can only grow in the darkness. Dean pushes him until the man’s back hits the wall. A soft thud that pushes out his breath, a gasp as he looks up at Dean. Dean knows that face. That “this can’t be happening” mixed with “this is all I’ve ever wanted” face. Dean’s seen so many faces.

He cups his hand under the man’s jaw, tilts him up, reassures him.  _ I got this, I know what I’m doing. _

Dean had been so grateful for the men who had touched him like that when he’d doe-trembled and stood there, frozen, terrified, leaking into his pants at just the taste of another man’s mouth. He rolls his body against Sad Eyes, lets his hips crush into him, lets him feel exactly what’s there. There’s no question between them. Dean’s cock is hard, throbbing against his slacks. When he angles his hips just so, he knows he’s not alone. He presses his forehead to Sad Eyes’s, just enough so he can glance down, get a glimpse of metal flashing as he undoes both their belts. Maybe there’s a universe where Dean gets to take this guy apart, where Dean gets to spend all night with him, undress him, learn every inch of his body, taste him, feel him, fuck him. Know his name. Dean doesn’t live in that world. For all the secret worlds Dean inhabits, the pleasures of his own body are those of the real world, and the real world has rules that even Dean can’t break. 

He reaches his hand down, tugging at the zipper until he undoes the guy’s slacks. He’s hard. It’s a shame it’s so dark back here. He’s got a nice cock, fat at the head, the kind Dean wouldn’t mind taking if he lived in that other world.

He reaches down, does the same to himself until they’re both out. They connect like an electrical circuit, lighting up when Dean closes a hand around both of them. A circle he can barely close. He hugs in tight, presses as much of himself as he can against the guy. For all that he’ll never know this man’s name, Dean knows this hunger. He knows that desperate arch of a back, the contortion to get as much of his skin against Dean’s as possible. Dean strokes them together, slow, savoring it as much as he can. The man pants against his neck, like a puppy. Maybe he’s never been touched like this. Dean smiles, turns his face so it’s right at the throbbing vein of his temple, sucks the salty sweat off his skin and wonders.  _ Maybe I’ll be your first. Maybe I’ll be your last. _ Dean kisses him again, wondering if anyone else will ever feel these lips like this, wondering if this poor guy will ever know the joy of feeling another man’s cock in there. 

Dean gets a good rhythm going, rolling his hips, sliding his hand up and down, so they can fuck up into it together. It’s quick and dirty, nasty back-alley stuff. More than Dean had hoped to get. 

This one’s a honey dripper. Dean’s knuckles are slick. They’d shine if he could hold them out into the light. He drags his free hand down, fuck it. Swipes his thumb over the slit of Sad Eyes’s cock, gets a salty drop, sucks it between his lips. Dean can see his eyes go wide in the bare darkness. Secretly, Dean hopes it’s an image that will be seared into his mind forever. He’ll never forget that taste.  _ You want me. Your body can’t lie. _

“That’s it, angel,” Dean whispers, and Christ, it’s the first thing he’s said to the guy. Seems to do the trick, though. He’s gasping and bucking into Dean’s hand, pulsing warm as he comes. Dean dives right after him, kissing him recklessly and open-mouthed. 

There are portals to Hell dotting this green Earth, that’s what all the old-timers say. Places where ley-lines and fairy-trails meet, where the veil between good and evil is so thin you could pierce it with a needle. The cavern that yawns open in Dean’s chest as he kisses this stranger in a dank basement could swallow Heaven itself.

“I should,” Sad Eyes starts, and Dean cuts him off before he can get to “...go.” Dean knows. No one sticks around for men like Dean Winchester. His Daddy raised him to salt it, burn it, and leave town before people start asking questions, and whether the old man knew that would apply to Dean’s cut-purse excuse for a love life is a secret the bastard took to his grave. He still raised a gentleman, though. Dean takes his handkerchief from his back pocket and cleans them both up as best he can. Sam’s used to him stumbling in stinking like sex and whiskey and stale regret, but he doubts this guy’s missus will be so understanding. 

“Thank you,” he says, and his voice is all gravel. Dean wants to think he’s the one who kissed it in there, but it might be natural. Dean swallows, willing the hell-hole in his gut to seal shut before he starts wanting things he can’t have.

Sad Eyes is still staring at him as Dean tucks himself back in. “My name’s--”

“Better if we don’t.” Dean smiles, putting some kindness in his hard truth. No good comes from names. Names have power. Names aren’t as easy to forget when you’re running asphalt under your wheels or staring at yourself in some small-town bathroom mirror. 

Dean lights a smoke as Sad Eyes reassembles himself, tucking his shirt in and staring down at his belt like he can’t believe what just happened. In the back-light of this underground haven, Dean can just make out the roll of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Dean’s read the bible plenty. You can only tempt the willing.

“You get home safe, now,” Dean says, tamping down the freshly-turned earth of his own desire. It’s better not to linger. Still, Dean presses one last kiss to those chapped lips before the guy disappears. 

Dean takes a drag off his cigarette, alone again with all the other things that can’t slither out of the darkness.

*

There’s a Navy recruiter outside the Post Office. Dean gives him a polite nod. His Daddy had paid his dues in Anzio, and he’d come back from the grave to cuff Dean upside the head if he were rude to a fellow Marine. Dean doesn’t like the empty eyes and railroad-arms he’s seen on some of the boys coming back from Vietnam, but those particular demons aren’t Dean’s problem. There’s always a war.

After Sad Eyes had flown back to whatever normalcy awaited him, Dean had hustled enough pool to stock them up on supplies and ammo. Sam’s off getting beer and sandwiches to last them till Cleveland, so Dean finds the nearest pharmacy to replenish their dwindling supplies of iodine and bandages. They can never have enough bandages.

Milton’s Pharmacy greets him on the main drag, and Dean has to smile to himself. It’s not exactly Paradise Lost, but it’ll do. For all the times they’ve run through Boston, they’ve never stopped here before. He fills his little basket with supplies and brings it to the register, wondering if this place will have any of those curved suture needles.  _ Probably not. _

Dean plants his basket on the counter and pulls out a stack of beer-kissed bills from his back pocket as the checkout girl rings him up. He stills. It’s a tiny thing, the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck, the strange chill that washes over him. Dean’s tensed and ready before he even looks up. 

_ Oh _ . Dean knows those eyes. 

He’s standing behind the flaxen-haired girl, face frozen in tense surprise under that same shock of black hair and those big, sad eyes. He’s so much more beautiful in the light.

Dean swallows, forcing a smile onto his face. 

“Do you have any suture needles, sweetheart?” he asks the checkout girl, letting his eyes flick to “Castiel Milton, Pharmacist” on the last word. Dean’s a good man, except when he isn’t. The flush on Castiel’s (what kind of name is that?) cheeks is worth the risk. Checkout girl’s too busy stammering  _ No, she’s so sorry, they don’t _ , to notice, not that she’d cotton on even if she were paying attention. Like the monsters Dean hunts, he’s something she’s never even thought of as a possibility.

“There’s a surgical supply next town over,” Castiel offers, that same gravel in his voice. He licks his lips, and his eyes are the most shocking blue when he looks at Dean. “If you think you’ll be back soon, I could order some for you.”

“Not sure when I’ll be back,” Dean shrugs, sliding his money onto the counter. Dean doesn’t pick where the monsters go. 

“I can get some. Just in case.”

Nothing good comes from men like this. Beautiful men with beautiful lives, men who go to church and own pharmacies. There’s no room in this man’s life for Dean. Any space he carves out will turn rancid, festering with resentment and regret. Dean shouldn’t.

“Sure,” he says instead, “I pass through often enough.”

Castiel’s smile is brief and brilliant, flaring out like a shooting star before he recovers himself. “What’s your name? For the, uh, for the order.”

There’s so much in a name. Dean should keep it close, hold this last secret to his chest. Hope is a dangerous thing, but it’s hope that keeps Dean fighting and finding what comfort he can, that keeps his head held high when he knows the rest of the world will never see him for who or what he is. He’d like to kiss this man again. He smiles, and takes the folded paper bag from Castiel, letting his hand graze over the back of Castiel’s hand.

“My name is Dean Winchester.”

  
  



End file.
